King 3

Giants Causeway Antrim, Ireland 633

The King didnt like islands. He hadnt for over a thousand years, since the last one he visited sank rather unceremoniously beneath him, killing just about all of his followers. Though vampires couldnt drown because technically they didnt breathe, there were still natural dangers in the water, predators, and those that did not force themselves to sink found themselves in the uncomfortable position of burning to death while submerged. Sunlight would still kill a vampire under water; he just simply wouldnt combust. Many of the Kings followers had discovered that fact rather painfully. And this island seemed no more inviting than the last. This frigid rock sat at the northern ass-end of the world. He couldnt believe he had traveled all the way across the Frankish domains just to be here, on some chilly hunk of land that stretched out its stubby rocky finger toward the even colder north. The Giants Causeway, the natives called it. The only place on Ireland where the work of God had not yet been done. The King didnt care about the work of God any god. Hed long since stopped believing in higher powers, choosing rather to have faith in himself and his own strength, his own cunning. In the last several hundred years he had bested warriors, monks, gladiators, and even a slayer or two. He was astonished at the way the young women kept showing up, in different lands and different times, and how they never lacked the courage to face him when even grown men would turn and flee at his demonic visage. The King didnt couldnt know what he looked like, but he knew it must be horrible, judging by the reactions he would get when he revealed his hunting face. He liked the fear, and he liked the chase his food would give him. He shuddered again in his heavy woolen cloak. Vampires werent supposed to feel the cold. They were supposed to be impervious to all the elements except sunlight. Rain, sleet, all of that, nothing to him, supposedly. But here he stood, alone, freezing, as the nighttime sky put on a dazzling show of starlight for him. And, again, there was the moon, that full moon, that he hated so much now. He knew the moon gave power to werewolves. After Atlantis, he had never forgiven them their craft and trickery, and once he had recovered, he had made it one of his passions to hunt them down and destroy them. They seemed better even than vampires at hiding themselves among the human population, though. The King guessed that the shapeshifters possessed natural guile, that they could hide so well. But they always came out in force at the full moon, ready to hunt, to kill. He remembered from Atlantis that some werewolves didnt need the moon to shift shape; since he had seen none capable of that since then, in all that time, he guessed it was a very rare trait. Werewolves were the reason he was here tonight, damn them. Some contacts of his the King was beyond the point where anyone could be considered his friend had told him that a new religion, a new belief, had spread to this island. They had also mentioned that there seemed to be an unusually large number of werewolves in Ireland, and that, combined with the strange power the symbol of this new religion seemed to carry, was enough to merit concern. Jubal of Alexandria had ventured up here just a few years ago; a hale vampire older than the Roman

106

Empire, he had vanished completely. The rest of the nightwalkers had taken that as a message to stay the hell away. Supposedly some holy man had driven the demons out of Ireland, with the help of the werewolves. The King tended to doubt that again, not really believing in any faith but all the same he felt more secure coming here and checking out this cold, rocky island for himself. Its a far cry from Constantinople, he mused, the city where he made his home most of the time these days. Warm, dry, comfortable Constantinople, jewel of the near east. A civilized place where men remained literate and learned, a cosmopolitan crossroads where many travellers passed constantly. A great center for news and information. Which was, of course, how he had learned of Jubals death, and the werewolves involved with causing it. And if they could kill Jubal, then maybe they could kill me. I must stop them. And with that, he had departed his rosier clime for this freezing hellhole. Hed taken a tiny craft from a travelling monk and sailed across the small expanse of water from the mainland until he stood here, at the strange rocky bridge that spanned across the water into the darkness, and waited. He heard them before he smelled them. Ten or twelve, maybe, a lot, but perhaps not too many to take on. They grunted and snarled as they made their way toward him, and from his hiding spot among the rocks he could see them, most of them looking grey or black in the moonlight, fur rippling as they stepped gingerly among the honeycomb-shaped pillars of rock. The King suppressed a growl of his own as he saw among them two holy men, each of them wearing long dark robes, one swinging a censor of incense. Between the two men walked a young woman, slight of build, carrying a spear and clad only in a short white shift and sandals, despite the cold, damp weather. The wolves moved along the rocky promontory until they came to a wide flat area, half-sheltered by a tall row of the boxy shafts of rock. The two men lit fat wax candles and set them down, four of them, forming a square around the girl. They began to chant, and one of them opened a scroll and began to read from it. The chanting was in a tongue the King did not know; but he recognized the recital as Latin, and the King understood that well enough. He followed along with the procession, willing to wait and bide his time, until he heard the word that brought his senses to an alert: slayer. And he knew that this girl was one, that she was in league with the holy men and the werewolves. In an instant the group of fifteen suddenly seemed too many to confront, even for the King. He listened to the rest of the prayer, or spell, whichever it was, seeking Gods benediction for the brave young woman. What sort of God do you pray to that doesnt even have a name? the King wondered. Abruptly the one cleric ceased reading; the other stopped his chanting, and as the King watched, the wolves raised their heads in unison and howled. The girl lifted her spear and cried out with them, a long keening note that hung in the air and then drifted out to sea with the tide. Then the wolves began to break up, each of them moving away from the woman, until the circle they formed about her had spread a dozen yards. Some of the ones further from the King were lost to the darkness; but from the ones he could still see, he could guess where the others were. The two holy men made crossing motions with their hands, and the girl bowed to each one of them. Then she lifted her spear and pointed right at him and screamed, Vampyr! Ishtars heaving breast, he swore to himself, and he threw himself from his rocky perch, aiming straight at the woman. She raised the spear high at the last second, impaling him, running him through the stomach, the long oaken shaft protruding out his back. He landed atop her, but she proved strong for one so tiny. She thrust him away from her and rolled to one side. The King stood up and plucked the spear from his belly; the wolves moved toward him, and he turned to grab one of the holy men and use him as a shield when the man raised a wooden cross in his

107

direction. The King laughed and stretched out his hand, to snatch away the symbol of the mans puny faith, to show him that no god protected him. But to his dismay, the cross burned his flesh, blistering the dark skin and causing him excruciating pain. He snarled and rammed the spear through the mans eye, killing him in an instant. The girl shrieked and threw herself at him, landing a punch across his jaw powerful enough to jar him. He staggered back at her strength and wrenched the spear around. The dead priest remained attached to it; but with the force of the Kings swing, the corpse lolled off the end, intercepting the first of the oncoming werewolves and buying the King precious seconds. He jabbed over the womans head, piercing the shoulder of the other holy man, knocking him over, and pulled the weapon back, ready to fend off the wolves. The woman held up her hand, speaking to the wolves in a language he didnt recognize, one similar to that of the chanting. The wolves held their ground, and the woman addressed him in Latin, I will face you alone. They will not interfere. Your death will be a fair one. The King laughed. I outgrew fairness a long time ago, he spat back, lashing out and smacking her across the jaw with the butt-end of the spear. She stumbled backward, dazed by the force of his blow, and before she could recover he reversed the weapon and ran her through, the sharp iron tip rending her skin apart, the metal head lancing down through her shoulder and splitting her heart in two. The slayer fell limp at the end of his weapon, and the wolves howled their anger and advanced on him. Wait! the wounded holy man called out, again, in Latin. Why are you here? he asked the vampire. Because I am the King, Gilgamesh answered. I was king once in Babylon, and I will be again at the end of days. The man held aloft his holy symbol, the wooden cross. Get thee behind me, Satan, the man cursed him. Your foul hand I would recognize anywhere, to strip this fair isle of her righteous defender! The King stabbed him in the throat, killing the priest. He raised the spear at a sharp angle and waited for the inevitable rush from the werewolves; but to his surprise, none of them came. They seemed content to pen him in, on that flat rocky surface, and they paced back and forth, watching him but never approaching. The King frowned at their behavior, until he realized they mean to keep me here until the sun can do their job for them! He threw the spear, catching a wolf in the side and downing it; the beast let out a wail, and the others tightened the circle, two of them moving toward their fallen comrade to insure that the King didnt try to retrieve the weapon. He drew his sword, a wide, flat blade, looking short in the hands of a man his size, and rushed another werewolf. One of them let out a fearsome growl, and they all fell upon him. The King, hard pressed to fend off so many attackers, lashed out again and again with the sword, falling back on thousands of years of training and experience, slashing into the wolves and wounding them deeply. Still they attacked, him, snapping at him, and he chopped the head off of one, the furry skull bouncing twice before coming to rest at his feet, changing to human in front of his eyes. Momentarily stunned, the wolves paused in their attack. The King took his opening, and jabbing quickly at another wolf, he darted out from their confining circle and made his way down the Giants Causeway, uncertain of where it led but confident that it had to take him someplace better than here, surrounded by a dozen wounded and angry werewolves. He ran for all he was worth, long muscular legs carrying him quickly over the slick rock, until he misstepped and slipped into the icy water, plunging down beneath the surface.

108

I hate islands, he thought as he sank like a stone to the bottom of the sea.

109